Dear places that fed me before I knew how to thank you.
I grew up at plastic tables, swinging my legs because they could not reach the floor. I remember the smell first, always the smell. Cumin and charred meat and sweet teh tarik pulled high into the air. I remember the heat too, the kind that sticks to your shirt while a ceiling fan does its tired best in the corner.
You know that feeling when a place knows you before you order. The auntie who already reaches for your usual. The uncle who slides the plate across without a word, just a nod that says eat, you look thin. That was how I learned what care tastes like.
Zam Zam on Arab Street was one of those places for me. The murtabak came folded and heavy, crisp at the edges, steam escaping the moment I tore into it. The men in the doorway called out to passersby, the griddle hissed, and somehow in all that noise I felt held. I have eaten there as a child, as a teenager pretending to be older, and as an adult trying to find my way back to something.
That is the quiet gift of halal spots. They were never just feeding my stomach. They were keeping a thread between me and where I come from, between my grandmother's kitchen and a street I could walk to on a Sunday. A bowl of soup. A wrapped roti. A drink in a glass that had served a thousand hands before mine.
I think about how easy it is to lose these places. Rents climb. The old hands grow tired. A shutter comes down and does not go back up. We scroll past them in search of the new, forgetting that the old ones carried us this far.
So here is what I am asking, gently. Go back to the stall that raised you. Order the thing you always order. Bring a friend who has never been and watch them taste your childhood. Sit a while longer than you need to. Tell the auntie the food was good, because she may not hear it enough.
These spots gave me more than meals. They gave me belonging, one warm plate at a time. The least I can do is keep showing up, keep telling their stories, and keep a seat at the table for whoever comes next.
With a full heart and an empty plate,
Me.
